The Case for Owning Your Website

I've had a personal website in some form for most of my career. Not because I had a grand plan for it, but because it seemed like an obvious thing to have—a place on the internet that's mine. Not rented, not shaped by someone else's interface, not dependent on what a platform decides to prioritize this quarter.

It doesn't need to be complicated. In fact, it works better when it isn't. A single page, a few links, maybe a short description of what you do—that's already enough. The point isn't to build something impressive. It's to have something that exists on your terms.

An Anchor, Not a Replacement

Most of us exist across multiple platforms. Twitter¹, Instagram, Substack, LinkedIn, and whatever comes next. Each of them solves a specific problem well—distribution, discovery, convenience. There's a reason they're successful, and it makes sense to use them.

But they're not you. They're representations of you, filtered through someone else's system. And those systems change. Sometimes gradually, sometimes all at once.

That's where a personal website starts to matter. Not as a replacement, but as an anchor. A single place that doesn't shift underneath you. A point of reference you can always link back to. Something that stays stable even as everything around it evolves.

Ownership, Practically

The domain is the obvious part—it's your address, the one thing you can carry with you regardless of where or how the site is hosted. But there's another layer that matters just as much: owning the code. Even if that code is a single HTML file.

I think there's an important difference between publishing content into a system and having direct control over how your site is built. Being able to open a file, change something, and know exactly what happened. No hidden layers, no abstractions you didn't choose.

A personal website doesn't need to compete with platforms. It doesn't need features, feeds, or growth loops. It just needs to exist. And because of that, it can stay small—a few static pages, plain content, minimal structure. That kind of simplicity holds up over time. There's very little to break, maintain, or migrate.

I'm not arguing against platforms. They're extremely good at what they do. The problem isn't using them—it's relying on them as your only presence. They don't belong to you, and they don't have to stay the way they are. Your website doesn't replace them. It sits next to them.

Technical Bias

I approach this from a technical angle, admittedly. I like understanding how things work, and I like being able to change them. Over time, I found myself gravitating toward systems where content is just files—simple, predictable, and easy to host almost anywhere.

That's what led me to Kirby. No database, just a set of files you fully control. It's not the only way to build a website, but it aligns well with this idea of ownership. It's also the approach I follow with the templates I build at tablo.supply—small, self-contained websites that don't require much to run and don't lock you into anything.

I keep coming back to the idea of building my own CMS too. Not because I need one, but because it's a useful exercise in constraint. What's the minimum you actually need? Where does complexity start creeping in? Those questions tend to return.

If you don't have a website yet, don't overthink it. You don't need a system, a design, or a plan. You just need a place. Start small and adjust over time.

A personal website isn't about rejecting platforms or doing things the hard way. It's about having a stable reference point—something that doesn't move unless you decide it should. Everything else can change around it.